Epilogue

Dear April Child, are you dreaming of June?

Like a tender young flower awaiting summer's bloom

Sweet April Child, in the springtime of youth

What a glorious season. It is yours let it shine through

I slowly bent down on one knee, hiking my pant leg up and balancing myself on the soft grass. My knees weren't as good as they used to be, and my days of playing soccer were long over. I've been demoted to the stands where I cheer for my great-grandson as he dribbles the ball down the field with an ease I wonder if I ever possessed.

My mind is wandering again.

I place the small bouquet of flowers in between the gravestones and run my hand through the fresh cut green grass. As odd as it sounds, I swear I could almost feel a warmth generating through the ground, but I've always had a wild imagination. My grandpa always said I got it from my mom. I look back at old photos of her and home movies she had made and have to agree... Just one of the many good qualities she passed on to me.

I should be used to it by now, but none of us were ever good at letting go.

I remember my mom shutting down when her grandpa died. She was in her forties, and I would still lie awake at night, my own wife sleeping next to me, wondering if I was going to wake up in the morning to hear of her suicide. Perhaps my mom wasn't the most stable of people; she was naive in a way... sensitive... and maybe too affected for her own good, but she had a way about her that seemed almost otherworldly. I guess every son says that about his mom, but she was absolutely everything I admired most in the world.

And my father showed me what it takes to be a man. He supported her and loved her even when she was at her lowest points. I remember him staying home from work for awhile because mom couldn't be around. She had to go away for awhile because of "body issues", as he put it. I know better now. Sometimes I wanted to talk about it, but one time I had and he had started crying so I never brought it up again.

He taught me how to play basketball and helped me buy my first car. He worked long hours at the hospital but growing up I could never remember a time when he wasn't around to play video games with me before I went to bed. I had questions about girls that I couldn't always ask mom, no matter how frank she was, so I asked him instead.

They'd been married 73 years. Married for 73 years, seven kids, and a number of family pets. She had gone on to starring in a few off-Broadway plays before settling down as a high school English teacher. Of course, she had always been an "aspiring" director. They still show her award-winning documentary on gender roles in society among schools. She was successful and completely oblivious to it. He had worked his way through medical school and into a comfortable position as surgeon in a top-rated hospital. He "retired" from surgery and focused on family practice for the last few years of his career. My mom loved to tell the story of him finding his calling in high school and pushing himself beyond expectations to meet his career goal. The sparkle in her eyes as she'd smile at him and caress his hand as he hid his reddened face in embarrassment is an image I've revisited many times.

He passed away during a cold and bitter March. She followed a month later. They were 92. Natural causes for him. A broken heart, I believe, for her. Here I am, nearing eighty years, myself... Eighty years, and I'm still crying at the loss. My dad might have taught me how to be a man, but he never was able to teach me how to void myself of emotion and turn my heart to stone. It wasn't in his nature.

A branch snapped behind me, and I looked over my shoulder. My wife stooped down and patted my shoulder.

"It looks like it might rain soon."

I glanced up at the sky. So it did.

I glanced back at the gravestones and bowed my head for a moment of silence. I said a short prayer and blessed the site. It's been three years and hasn't gotten any easier. I don't think it ever will.

I held out my arm for my wife, and she took it gratefully as we walked down the pathway towards our car. I talked about the same old memories as I always did during our visits to the cemetery.Some my wife took part in... Some she only heard about. The day Grandpa Cameron died... my mom's return from therapy... visits to the art museum... working on my car out in the garage... the backyard barbecues... the weekend trips to the zoo...

The sun still peeked out from behind the clouds.

Some say they saved each other. I say that's true.

Dear April Child, it's the spring of your youth.

Cherish these precious days. Summer comes all too soon.

Dear April Child, still dreaming of June.